The Globe in My Hands
by SuaSponte
Summary: The world is in an uproar as ancient artifacts, jewels, and priceless relics are being stolen from their countries without a trace. Some think it to be an organization while others are pointing fingers at each other, but little do they know that the true culprit is working them like puppets with a bigger plan ahead of it all. Besides, who'd ever expect it to be the hero?
1. Chapter 1

"_In recent news rare artifacts around the world have gone missing in the past month including ancient Chinese artwork that dated back to the Ming Dynasty, the Mona Lisa which was located in the Louvre of Paris, France, ancient Japanese Samurai sword, the Romanov Jewels of Russia and many more things both high in price and security. While there is no proof that these thefts are connected the officials around the world believe that it is an organized group of highly trained robbers behind these attacks. More information will come soon. Now back to you Jim." _

England grabbed the black remote and turned off the flat screen on the wall that sat at the end of the long, wooden meeting table. The entire world had come for this meeting, the faces all in distress, threats spewing from every side and angle.

China stood up and pointed his finger at Russia who was standing silently, the normal threatening smile on his face erased and replaced by a wide eyed face of disgust.

"YOU TURTLE EGG ASSHOLE OF A COUNTRY I BET YOU'RE BEHIND THIS ARU~!" China screamed at him.

Belarus glared at him, her fist clenched so hard that the blood veins in her hand became visible. "SHUT UP YOU COMMIE! YOU MUST BE BEHIND THIS!" Her eyes became demonically red, her teeth clenched.

The room was in uproar, hateful slurs and accusations flying from one country to another. Everyone was on their feet and screaming, even Greece who was normally asleep during the meeting, his words exchanging between Turkey who was on full blast. Every country was involved.

"THIEF!"

"ASSHOLE"

"YOU DAMN MARAUDERS! I KNEW YOUR VIKING DAYS WEREN'T OVER!"

"EH?! DON'T ACCUSE ME YOU PIRATE!"

Germany tried to speak over them all in explanation that it didn't have to be one of them behind all these robberies and that they were all being idiots, but even his voice couldn't pierce the barriers of hate set up.

In the midst of the screams and accusations the great double doors of the meeting hall swung open, silencing the room as no one expected anybody to be late for such a meeting. They stared as America walked in, burger in one hand and coffee in another; his chipper smile differing himself from the other frowns and glares. He paid no attention to the entire world staring at him; he just walked to his chair, sat down, and continued eating his burger and drinking his coffee. He looked up and saw everyone staring at him.

"Hey dudes want some coffee?" He shook his Starbucks cup sarcastically, expecting England to begin telling him all the reasons why he wasn't supposed to be late, but they just went back to fighting.

He watched as the anarchy levels of the room grew to mass proportions. He stood up and slammed his hands down on the table, the sound silencing the room once more.

"YO what the hell man? What's going on?!" He asked the room in a shout.

They stared at him with surprise.

"You git…you really don't know?" England asked.

"Nope" he replied back, shrugging.

"You stupid American of course you wouldn't know" France's snarky remark shot at America.

"Well what do you expect from him?" Austria folded his arms and huffed.

"Ah America I'm surprised you don't know. It's been all over the news." Estonia shifted his glasses and then shot a glare at Russia. "And there are a couple of culprits in this very room."

"Oh right that. I'm not really worried seeing as I'm a hero and all!" He bolted out a laugh. "If anyone tried to take anything from me they'd be seeing red, white, and blue for months!"

One could feel the eye rolls of the entire room as he said this, only this time nobody was in the mood to deal with it. "Just get out of here America." Germany clenched his fingers on the rim of his nose, his eyes shut. "We're dealing with a real problem here."

"What?! But I just got here dude!"

"Please America-san. If you don't have anything we ask you to pardon yourself from the discussion." Japan's voice was just over a whisper but it still struck America hard as Japan would normally agree with him whenever there was a meeting.

The rest of the room began to tell America to leave. There was a common belief that had already been circling around that he was too fat, too loud, too undisciplined, too…everything to steal anything, so no one had any quarrel with him other than the fact that he was annoying.

"Ye know what?! Fine whatever. Who needs you losers anyways?" He stood up and walked out of the room, his coffee and burger still in hand.

Once the double doors shut the room fell back into chaos, the shouts being heard from outside the room where America was leaning against the wall, crumpling up his burger wrapper and throwing it into the metal garbage can that sat next to the wall with him. He smirked and began his walk out of the building.

"Idiots."


	2. Chapter 2: May the blood wash away

The sky grew dark, the grey clouds of England looking over the city in a gloomy blanket. America sat on the old stone balcony that extended from the old hotel that sat between a café and a tailor's store, ivy growing on its body. He held a cigarette between his middle and index finger, the smoke floating in the cold, moist air. Normally he'd detest cigarettes but he'd always smoke one when the next escapade was coming up. It kept his excitement down so that he wouldn't be all jittery and accidentally do something that'd blow the whole thing up.

He looked at his watch. 6:14 PM. He dropped the cigarette and stepped on it, making sure he didn't leave it smoldering. He walked back in and closed the door to the balcony, grabbing the curtain and pulling it over the glass door. He went to the single queen sized bed and grabbed the red duffel bag that sat on the middle of it. He checked the inside, making sure everything needed for tomorrow night. Tonight, though, he was going to spend the night out, enjoying the city and collecting a few things he needed.

He grabbed a few things out of the duffel bag and put them into a tourist's backpack. He then grabbed a hat on a little coffee table in his room and put it on. He started out the door and down the stairs, waving and giving a smile to the old woman behind the counter who had a little tea cup in her hands. She returned the smile.

"You might want to bundle up there Mr. Jones. It's going to be chilly tonight." She remarked before he made the final step out the door.

"I'm alright Mrs. Harris. You take care tonight." He made a final hand gesture and walked out the door into the bustling streets of London.

He looked at the slip of paper from his pocket with the names of all the people he had to visit that night, some sooner than others, but all under the radar. He made a left, making sure to look out for anyone who had been at the meeting earlier since many of them decided to stay in London since everyone was sure it'd go on for quite a while. He took a left into a dark alleyway and into a backstreet where the most festive thing was a hole in the wall of a tavern. He glanced inside but quickly began again when he saw a familiar face that came after him.

"Hey America!" It was England who had just come out of the bar.

America's teeth clenched some when his back was still turned to him, but then he turned around acting surprised. "S'up dude! Getting' hammered?"

England stopped wide eyed and then looked away. "Tch. Of course not you twit I was just enjoying the night as a gentleman should."

America looked at the tavern and then back at England's face which had turned red. "Well…whatever then I just came to…er…ap-ol-ig-ize for everyone kicking you out of the meeting hall. That may have been a bit much."

"Whatever man that's totes cool I didn't wanna be there anyway!" He gave one of his cheesy American smiles and began to turn. "Well see ya dude!"

"Wait. Would you like to share a pint with me?" England asked.

America stopped. The last time England had asked of this was when he was apparently just trying to coax information out of him and that just ended with England screaming and crying. America wanted to turn back and go in and see that again but he had a mission to complete. He kept on walking.

"No thanks man I gotta bounce. Maybe next time though 'kay?!" He looked over his shoulder as he walked and saw the expression on England's face, solemn and a little hurt but hidden behind a wall of tsundere.

"Well erm. Alright then, it's not like I wanted to have a drink with you anyways." He walked back into the pub.

America sighed and continued on his way, taking off his jacket and putting it into the backpack, taking out a black one in the process which covered his hands and went down to the middle of his thigh. He pulled his hat downwards to cover his face when he turned to another dark corner of the street and then continued on where another man was leaning against a cracked stone wall, a large bag next to him. He had a thick Scottish accent.

"Oy where ya been ya dobber? I've been waiting here for twenty minutes for ya." The place reeked of back alley booze.

"Do you have em?" America ignored the man's snide remark.

"Yeah I got it ye goat. Where's the money?"

America reached into the backpack and pulled out a thousand bucks in cash neatly banded together by a rubber band. He held it up and then signaled for the bag at the man's feet. He kicked it to him. America grabbed the bag and looked inside to find a variety of state of the art tools.

America could get these things in America but he preferred to scatter his payments so that there'd be no trail back to him. Plus what he had in storage was meant for something much bigger.

"Now where's mah money?"

America threw the wad at the man who examined every bill in a quick flip. "Aight then off with ye."

But America didn't move. Instead he pulled out a gun and pointed it at the man, no remorse in his face. The man's face hardened.

"We had a deal laddy!" He screamed, though the streets were so desolate no one could have heard.

"I had a deal with Callum, Mr. White, not you." America had known this man was an undercover spy sent into the underground to deal with things like this. This man didn't know his motives though or his name. He just wanted a face to identify with when ratting out a dirty deal.

Mr. White went for the gun in his waist pocket, but before he could even pull it out a bullet went straight through his head. He fell into a dirty puddle, his blood mixing in it. America walked up to the body and examined it while wearing a new pair of gloves he had taken out of his bag. He grabbed the money and then pulled out the bullet with long tweezers he had brought. He checked for a bug and found that this man didn't have one; rookie mistake. He knew what he was doing. He had done it before a few weeks ago when a French officer had caught him red handed in a dealing.

America knew what he was doing was wrong, but he didn't care. War had sullied him. He knew the world was cold and cruel, and yet he stayed in denial for so many years, but things had happened. Things that could never be unseen had opened his eyes to a life of intricate crime behind his smiling mask.

America looked at the body one more time, knowing that he wouldn't be able to hide this body like he had with the French officer. He went through every outcome that would happen if he left the body and came to the conclusion to plant anything incriminating on some drunken bum.

And so America did just that, finishing off his night and getting some drunken bum's fingerprints all over the murder scene before he passed out from intoxication. He went back to the hotel around midnight with a burger in his hand and a coke in the other. The old woman was still at the front, but now she had a book with her.

"How was your night Mr. Jones?" She asked politely.

"It was nice. I went to go see some friends and grabbed a bite to eat." He held up the burger, his smile remaining. "You have a good night now!" He went up the stairs and into his room, shutting the door behind him and taking off the backpack, examining everything he had gained that night plus the bonus thousand bucks from the botched deal. He then made the proper preparations to make sure nothing on him could trace back to anything.

He finished everything and plopped onto the bed, looking at the tan, crackled ceiling. He couldn't help but smile.

(I do not own Hetalia or any part of it)


	3. Chapter 3: Blindfolded in a Minefield

The morning had come, sunlight penetrating through the cloud line and through the windows of America's room, but he didn't move when he awoke. Instead he stared up at the same crackled ceiling he had looked at the night before, pondering everything that was going to go down. He slowly came up, wondering how quickly the past night's escapades had reached the press. He got out of the warm bed, putting on his glasses, stripping off his blue pajamas and putting on his trademark outfit. He walked down the stairs to see Mrs. Harris watching the news on a little box of a TV that sat on her counter.

America knew what she was watching, but he asked anyways.

"What's on the news?" He asked curiously, bending over the counter some to catch a glimpse.

She turned the little television some so he could see as well. "Oh it's just dreadful. Some homeless chap killed an officer last night. My God what has this world come to?"

Her tone was one of those "when I was a child it wasn't so…" tones.

America continued watching as the reporter spoke as she stood in front of the crime site.

"_There were no spectators who saw the murder of Officer White, but finger prints have led to a homeless man who has been convicted twice of harassing the public while under the influence-" _

Mrs. Harris turned off the television, sighing deeply in depression. She grabbed her book from the little cabinet under the counter, adjusting her reading glasses which had a small golden chain that went from one leg of the glasses to the other behind her head. She looked up at America.

"So sorry to begin your day with such dreadful news darling; please, don't let this ruin the day for you."

He almost found her comment ironic. "Don't worry ma'am." He then walked out of the hotel to get breakfast, whistling the tune from Kill Bill as he walked down the busy roads once more.

It was a quiet morning though even with the busy streets. America went for breakfast in a nearby café, drinking a coffee and munching on a piece of toast with jelly on it as he contemplated the evening, staring at the small tack wall that was plastered in advertisements and business cards that different people had put up. He sat back in the armchair that sat in a corner of the café along with one other, a small, glass coffee table and a bookshelf.

Some time had passed. He left his money on the counter of the café and left to walk around the city. He had already looked through the schematics, personal lives and work hours of every single guard, knows every password, and everything else he'd need to know to steal the crown jewels tonight. This caper would be greater than the Mona Lisa. He kept walking on when he heard a noise from behind.

"Bonjour America!" '

America turned around to see France walking quickly towards him, though not in his normal cape and flashy clothes. Instead he was wearing a black V-neck sweater with a pair of tight jeans and black shoes, his hair up in a ponytail.

"Sup frenchie!" America smiled back. "You haven't left yet?"

He blushed a little, though America couldn't figure out why. "No I had some…business." He rubbed the back of his head somewhat bashfully.

"Suspicious but whatever" America joked, knowing that France had a "streak", though he still couldn't figure out why he'd be so bashful; France always jumps at a chance to talk about his love life.

"Ah well I just wanted to apologize for what happened yesterday. This whole thief thing is quite unsettling you know."

"Ah dude no worries. Those meetings bore the hell out of me anyways. HAHAHA."

"Well I'm glad to see you aren't mad. Big brother was getting a little worried." France's voice was back to his mellow tone instead of the one that sounded like it was hiding back embarrassment.

The two began walking together, France being his normal, peppy self again, complaining about the drab food and drab women all around him. Then he switched to something that caught America's ear.

"So did you hear that England's boss asked him to guard the Crown Jewels personally?"

America stopped. "What? Why?"

"His boss is paranoid that they'll be stolen soon so he asked England to look over for a while during the night shifts. They also put in new security measurements. Oh…don't tell England I told you this."

Fuck. Shit. God damn it this makes everything much more difficult. America tried to hold back cursing into the air. Instead he just continued walking on.

"How'd you hear this stuff?"

"I have my ways." He had an egotistical twinge in his voice along with a smile on his face. "England was pretty proud of it; Idiota gênant."

America clenched his right arm into a quivering fist, away from France's eye. "Hey I gotta go and pack up my stuff. My flight leaves pretty soon. See ya." He began walking in the other direction, leaving France on his own.

France remained standing there alone, a thought flickering in his mind. Why does America smell like smoke? He doesn't smoke. He hates smoking, right?

America returned to the hotel, slamming the door of his room and punching the bed so hard that the wooden frame cracked. "Shit."

He reevaluated everything. His actions may have to work on the fly now. He frustratingly grabbed the cigarettes out of small cabinet of the night stand and began to smoke it as soon as he got back to the balcony, his heavy breaths slowing down into a calm, melodious rhythm. He began thinking more straightly.

He didn't know if his original plan would work anymore. He couldn't get new information at a time like this, only hours before it would go down. He didn't know what things he'd have to surpass and what obstacles and hidden things he'd have to overcome now. They could've changed up the guard's scheduling for all he knew, but it wasn't likely. He didn't know anymore, and not knowing pissed him off. He then had an idea, quickly putting out the cigarette and running back into the room. He grabbed the suitcase from under his bed and quickly pulled it out, opening it and searching through. He found the case files on all the guards, pulling out the ones timed for that night. One sparked his interest.

"_Richard Matthews/Age 35/born Oct 3, 1980."_

_"__Daughter: Alice Matthews - 2 years old"_

_"__Wife: Joan Matthews - 30 years old "_

_"__Address: 3453 Mulberry Lane, Cartwright St."_

_There was an entire profile on the man. _

He looked at the photo of the man: blond hair, blue eyes, bright smile, and young looking. Perfect.

America had a man to visit and didn't have a moment to lose.

(I do not own Hetalia)

(Also I'd love to hear what ya'll think of the story. It's been quite a while since I've written Hetalia based stories :P)


	4. Chapter 4: A Dead Life Rises

The taxi stopped in front of the home, a little apartment that was a part of a much wider complex. America got out of the taxi and paid him in full plus the tip. As the taxi drove down the cobblestone road America walked to the addressed room and knocked on it, now sporting a black fedora and a brown wig, his glasses stuffed in the pocket of his black coat and his eyes sporting brown contacts. A woman, Joan, opened the door, a young child behind her legs.

"May I help you?" She asked.

The woman had long brown hair all put up in a messy bun, her apron covered in flour and bits of dough. She had a kind, oval face which complimented her nicely.

"I'm here for your husband Mrs. Matthews. We have a few things to discuss."

She went wide-eyed. "Oh my, you aren't here for the payment on the apartment are you? Look sir we promise it'll be here soon."

America waved his hand in dismissal to her statement. "Oh no, no, no ma'am; you can just call me a friend. May I speak to your husband?"

She remained tense but let him in. He came in to see the entirety of the apartment was dark, the lights dimmed. The floor felt dirty, the carpet obviously needing a good cleansing. The walls were a bright blue, the color of a bluebird's eggshell, but he could see little parts of the painted wall chipped away, revealing a black undercoat.

"Sorry about the mess. Richard's in the kitchen right now."

She led America in, the daughter trailing behind them. America came into the kitchen, the sinks filled with soapy water, the dishes strewn everywhere on the counter. The stench of brandy filled the air, the source a man sitting at the round table with a shot glass in one hand and a large bottle in the other. He looked shaggy, his clothing – a brown shirt and baggy pants. He was slouching over the table some, his back arched.

"A minute please?" America looked at the wife who quickly left the room.

America sat down on the opposite side of the round table, the sunflower table cover in need of a good scrub. The man looked up at America. "May I help you?"

"Are you Richard Matthews? My name is Calvin Bequin. I'm here to discuss your work as a guard."

"Confidential." He sighed.

America pulled out a counterfeit form of authenticity, showing it to the man as proof to be trusted. "Trust me sir, I know."

The man sat back, crossing his arms. " A'ight what can I help you with Mr. Bequin?"

"You work the two hour shift between 2-4 correct?"

"Ay."

"Interesting job?"

"Yes sir."

"It must be especially considering how young you are. Twenty two years of being an officer under your belt? How old could you have been?"

He remained silent.

"Eleven? Twelve? My, my Mr. Matthews, quite an exquisite man you are."

"Special declaration for me ye know. I've done quite a lot for my country; enough for early recognition."

America smirked and pulled out a folder from inside his jacket and opened it, only his eyes being able to see. "Interesting Mr. Matthews…or should I say Mr. Ferguson?"

The silence in the room was palpable.

"What in bloody hell's name are you talking about?"

America dropped the folder on the table, revealing the case files that he had collected with his extensive knowledge from the underground. "Ridley Ferguson, age 56, but won't plastic surgery do wonders? Convicted of aggravated assault and four counts of murder in Scotland; left under a new name, age, and history. Aren't you dumb; a 35 year old man a guard at the Jewel House? Pitiable; how did you even get that by them? You must have botched up the age some there too. What's the history you gave your wife; a beaten boy, born a bastard child in the streets perhaps? Escaped and saved lives in London which bestowed you such great luck in the Tower of London?"

The man stopped dead, staring at America with cold dead eyes. "I wanted to start anew. A job like that could boost me away from my past."

"Ay, but a misplaced line in your history can dissolve everything now can't it?"

The man stood up, preparing to swing the bottle at America's hand, but before he could America grabbed the man's arm, stopping his movements. "You're an interesting man. You've been helpful my pursuit, but I'm afraid I'm going to need something of you."

"What?" the man spat.

"Your identity; a small fee to you I'm sure seeing as you have so many you can't even keep track anymore."

"And if I don't ye bastard?"

America moved over a few papers revealing the man with incriminating photos, both which could botch his family and his life. "The officers and your wife will be happy to see these Mr. Ferguson. Now, begin from the beginning in regards to your life as Richard Matthews. I want everything."

And so he was given every bit of information that America could use from working schedule, friends, even favorite bars. Everything worked in its own way, everything piling on one another. When the man was done he stood up once more, holding back tears, knowing he'd have to leave the world he had created once more. He gave America the key to his personal locker which held his uniform and everything else he'd used at work for the shifts.

America thanked the man and went on his way, taking his car. The wife said not a thing in fear that her husband would become enraged. She watched the car drive away, and then watched as her husband frantically packed his belongings.

"I've been told I have to leave for a little while darlin'." He said, putting on a brown coat.

America drove away, truly amazed at the luck that had struck him with that particular man. It almost seemed ungodly. He stopped at a bathroom near the tower, looking at the photo of the man he had. All he really had to do was comb his hair back and exchange contacts to green ones. He put a little makeup on to give himself a closer resemblance to the man.

The plan may not have gone as accordingly as it should have, but damn America was good.

(I DO NOT OWN HETALIA)


	5. Chapter 5: An Easy Escapade

He had made final preparations so that his face resembled the man's to the point where no one would see a difference if they were just casually looking. He put on a brown, flat hat, discarding the disguise he wore to the apartment into separate garbage cans throughout his trip back to the hotel. He looked at his watch; 10:40 PM now, he was ahead of his schedule. He made sure everything he needed was packed. America had everything he needed for the night in his red duffel bag, the rest of his belongings were already on his plane (he had dropped it off on his way to the apartment).

America sat out on the balcony once more, cigarette in hand. He let his mind organize itself as he thought once more over the schematics and order of things that would go down. He looked at the cobblestone street beneath him, the rain of the evening keeping everyone off the roads. He leaned against the cold, stone railing, tapping off the ashes at the end of his cigarette, watching the ashes disappear as they flew away.

America went back inside and reexamined his newly made face and hair. It may have looked like a waste of makeup and resources to put it on so early in the day but he wanted to make sure he knew the face, feel the face, became who he was trying to fake. It gave him a sense of security if he had experienced the persona just some before living it. He knew the basis persona of the man; a simpleton was what America saw.

He waited a few hours more until he went back inside the room where he pulled everything out of the red duffel bag and put them into little compartments of a black vest which he put on, the vest closing with Velcro so that it would lay flat. He put a brown shirt and jacket over it, readjusting everything to fit his persona. He left the hotel through the balcony so the old woman wouldn't spot him for she thought he had already left. The now empty red duffel bag hung around him. He jumped into the man's stolen car and drove to the tower, preparing for the night.

Getting in was easy, but getting rid of every single security camera and motion sensor under each piece of treasure of England was hard. Still, America managed with haste. Afterwards, he got to the locker, leaving the red duffel bag in it and putting on the uniform. He grabbed everything needed for protocol, his ID, gun, everything. He made his way up to the Jewel House where the soldiers now guarded the jewels.

England was there in the uniform just as France had said earlier, his face stern and sharp as he marched around the small perimeter of the tower around the jewels. There was another guard by the door on the lowest floor and then one patrolling the stairs that led to the room. The room itself had windows with bars over them even though they were much too small for any grown man to fit through. America continued protocol, not saying a word to England as he began marching around his assigned perimeter.

America reached into the vest under the uniform, grabbing a tiny gas mask that he held in his mouth. He began to strip and pull out what he needed, England turning the corner.

"What in the Queen's name are you doing?" He asked suspiciously, not knowing that the man was America.

But before any reaction could be made America threw a bunch of pellets onto the ground, their bodies breaking and filling the air with an incapacitating agent. England fell to his knees, his throat burning, trying to steady his gun at the guard, seeing triple.

"Sweet Dreams." America took his voice down an octave when he kicked England in the face, knocking him out completely.

Now it was a test of time. America stripped out of the uniform and pulled out a high powered laser the size of a pen, state of the art tech that only he had in the world. It cut a giant circle into the stone wall, its body falling inwards. America grabbed a tiny box from his vest which quickly inflated into a flexible, metal-like bag, something that had been apart of the military but could only be put into civilian hands through the black market. He filled it with jewelry, crown, sword, and even the first anointing spoon. He took a small grappling hook out of his largest vest pocket which had a coil of durable, magnetic, hooked line on it. He shot this hooked line to the neighboring building, the sirens going off in the tower. He grabbed the bag and put it on a metal zip-line hook which would be attracted to the other side of the line. The bag went racing off to the other side as America did the same.

He made it to the other side, pulling him up as well as the bag. He cut the wire that he used to grapple over knowing it would disintegrate in time, watching as the guards from the lower parts of the tower were running to the jewels. America smiled as he began to run across the building tops, the giant bag slung over his shoulder (he resembled Santa in a way), reaching where he had parked the man's car. He climbed down the buildings like a spider until he reached the ground where he jumped into the car, driving to the plane.

He left the car at the bottom of a lake, running the little rest he had to before reaching the small plane that had been put in the middle of an empty field, a place that very few knew about. Very few people knew America flew to his destinations on his own sometimes, but to him it was a convenience, not being barred by the schedules of anyone else.

It was a small, custom made plane; not a jet but rather one of those small, white planes equipped for one to two people. His boss hadn't bothered coming to England due to certain issues, so nothing was out of place. America thought again at the incredible luck that he had with this mission. No fuck ups, a perfect Plan B, and an easy escape. It almost seemed too easy.

He checked his radar and the flight patterns of all the other planes coming in and out, equipping his small plane's cloaking device which kept him off radar. He began his flight, the riches of England in the back. He snickered to himself as he began his way home; making sure that he had enough gas to get him home his last action in regards to this great feat.

(I DO NOT OWN HETALIA)

(Also I love y'all :D)


	6. Chapter 6: The Plans of a Goliath

It had been a few days since America had returned home, his winnings stored away into a room he had built on his own with all his free time. He watched on the news as London pursued Mr. Matthews/Ferguson; he was the first suspect since he fit every bit of evidence that could convict him.

When England saw him he didn't see America. No, the darkness, makeup, hairstyle, contacts, and uniform all made him look like dear Mr. Ferguson. The officers looked through his locker and found the red duffel bag, something laced with chemicals that corresponded to the gas used that night. They searched his home and background, learning about his multiple past lives. At his home they discovered he was an alcoholic who would verbally abuse his family. His wife said nothing about "Calvin." He was on the run now, and America didn't have to do a single piece of paper work.

America got an itch inside him, one that came ever so often. He stood up from his couch and turned off the news, walking to his old, abandoned storage room. He walked past the memories-the suit, the musket, the old toys and photos- and came up to a little desk with a little wooden stamper on top of it. It was nothing eye catching, but to him it was thirty years of hard work under no eye of anyone else. He made sure the door behind him was shut before he pushed over the stamper, its peg attached so that only it moved without the rest of its body. The floor behind it moved apart, the boxes and objects on top of it moving with it since they were all sort of "props" to avert the eye. There was a stairwell that led down to a lower storage area; one America had built out of sheer boredom and on a whim for thirty years; now, though it gave such a grand purpose. He walked down, the trap door above moving back to its previous state.

There were only a few steps until he reached a platform which lit up with his movements; the room was quite high. He stopped at the end of the stairs and looked as the white tiled room, floor and wall, were lit up, revealing pedestals and walls covered in the gems of the world. The first things on the wall on the left were the paintings of China, the swords of Japan next to them. On the right wall was the Mona Lisa, mourning for new companions to join her on that wall. Then there were the Romanov Jewels which had three large pedestals for them.

Then, in the center, was a round platform, about the size of one of those round couches you'd find at a shoe store, only this one was hard and white. This white platform sported the jewels, crowns, and all other bits of the Jewel House that America had taken. He stared at his riches, hidden away beneath centuries worth of old memories that he could never find the nerve to throw out.

He gave the room one last glance and turned around, leaving the room and returning to the couch where he drank a Coca-Cola he had out. He knew he would have to eventually take something of his own nation as to not cause suspicion, and he already knew what it would be, but he would have to wait a little while. Every nation was beefing up its security and that didn't exclude his own.

There was an emergency meeting in Italy being held by the few countries whose artifacts had been stolen or were most likely subjects to be stolen as the thief obviously was going after the larger countries artifacts first. America was to go to this meeting which was to be held in a week's notice, so he had some planning to do. His escapades were becoming much more difficult, but fun nonetheless. He lay back on his couch, thinking about what to do.

"Let's see; Declaration of Independence this week or David next week?" He sat there in wonder.

He always gave himself at least two weeks or so before striking again, but the world was getting restless…and so was he. He wondered. It would be hard to steal David, but for him it was either David or a part of the Sistine Chapel, and he didn't have the heart to break up such a masterpiece. Then there was the question as to how he would steal David. Heavily guarded, heavy, large, not possible to hide in a car obviously…then he had an idea.

Smoke and mirrors would do the trick. Now, he just needed more time.

A week or so to work; this would test him for sure, but he was America, he could do what he wanted. He needed guard schedules, schematics, weight and height of David, everything. He'd have to use a few new gadgets he'd been working on, but none of them would be able to hide Michelangelo's David and transport it. That would take a little time to set up, but it would be possible nonetheless.

"Well Italy" he laughed to himself. "Here we come."

(I DO NOT OWN HETALIA)


	7. Chapter 7: Overwhelmed by the Unknown

The week had passed and soon the meeting had come up. America was able to persuade his boss to not come even though his boss had a liking to Italy. America took a normal flight there, the calls he needed made and the preparations set. He watched the white clouds beneath him floated with bliss, no concerns.

He checked into the hotel and took a nap, a day left till the emergency meeting was held. When he awoke it was around 5:30 PM at night in Italy, his stomach growling. He went into Florence where his hotel was located and immediately found a place for dinner. He walked around, a cola in his hand, the sun setting. He found himself at a waterfront, but there he saw something much more interesting than the water. He hid behind a building, watching with his phone out.

The next day had come, America actually showing up a few minutes earlier than everyone else, the room grand and luxurious as anyone would suspect in Italy. He sat back in his red, comfy, swivel arm chair. The rest soon came in after; Germany came in with Japan and Italy, Russia and China coming in one at a time afterwards. Canada came in soon after (though no one noticed). The only ones missing were France and England.

"Aiyah~ the most they could do is be on time." China's arms were folded, his long sleeve outfit replaced by a black suit, his face menacing.

As he said that the two came crashing into the room, both of them heavily breathing.

"Bullocks! I told you to take the other road you ass hat!" England spat at France as they got into their chairs.

"Ehh?! It was your faulty instructions that got us lost for the first thirty minutes you imbecile!"

The two continued to glare at each other as Germany began to lead the meeting. "I've collected the data on these robberies and the suspects that followed."

He turned on a PowerPoint that shown on a screen in front of the meeting table. First came up the photos of the samurai swords which were first stolen. "These were stolen two and a half months ago on Nov 5. No suspects. The guards had all been incapacitated through the pressure points on their necks. There was no evidence left behind."

Japan gritted his teeth some as Germany changed the screen.

"About two and a half weeks later the Chinese pictures were stolen; those were in the Forbidden City. Two guards dead and one still in a coma. Cause of death for both was a slit neck while the comatose guard suffered hits to the head by a blunt object. No suspects."

China stared at the screen with dismay, wanting to stand and scream.

The screen changed. "Three weeks later the Mona Lisa was stolen from Paris, France. There was one suspect who is now being held in custody. His name was Johannes Lefou, a service worker who had been struggling to make ends meet. He's charged for both the theft of the Mona Lisa and the disappearance of Officer Dubois who was last seen patrolling near the Louvre."

France made no movements; he only stared.

"Then we have the Romanov Jewels from Russia, stolen about two weeks after the Mona Lisa. The entire infrastructure had been filled with an incapacitating agent which gave every person in the building severe hallucinations, different reactions occurring. Two committed suicide and the rest yet to recover. No suspects."

The slide changed, Russia readjusting his scarf.

"Finally we have the Crown Jewels, stolen a week and a half ago. This one was the most intricate theft as to date. The room was filled with an incapacitating agent only this one only left the victim unconscious unlike in Russia. There was only one suspect. Ridley Ferguson, accounted for both theft and murder in Scotland, he moved to the UK to supposedly start a new life under a new alias. Though, as England describes it he was the man who had knocked him out and was last seen in the room. His locker had a red duffel bag inside it, something that has yet to be confirmed as suspicious."

"Damned bugger I'll have his head." England murmured to himself.

The room was silent, Germany readjusting his tie as he pinched the rim of his nose in frustration. "As far as we know the only pattern we can find is that these occur in two-three week intervals. Also…though this may just be a theory we've noticed that these thefts have occurred a day or so after the World Meetings. This wasn't the case in China or Japan, but it did occur in France, Russia, and in the UK."

"Whaaaa~?! Am I next?!" Italy's head went head first onto the table, his hands covering his head in fear.

"You moron we don't know" England scoffed.

"But it's a coincidence don't you think?" Russia stated.

"Ja, we don't know yet if it's a correspondence, but if this pattern follows we'll be able to narrow down the suspects. Still, for all we know it could be a worldly organization or a coincidence which could prove my theory faulty. As of current Ferguson is our best bet, but seeing as we still haven't tracked him down these theories are the best thing to work off of."

America tensed up some, though it wasn't enough to grab the eye of anyone at the table. He knew that someone would eventually catch onto that but he thought he could get in at least this last theft in. He hoped that this theory would remain underground for just a little while longer. Still, if he were to act they may begin to hone in on the theory that these thefts have been happening after meetings; if they do they might begin suspecting each other even more. Eventually they'll begin monitoring each other without each other's consent. That's how it always goes these damned countries. America weighed his options. Would his plan still work?

No, all the preparations were already set and he hated to back out now. If he were to be caught though what were his options?

1. Suicide

2. Trial which would most likely lead to life in prison

3. Go into hiding

4. …

He had thought over this list hundreds of times, the same result always coming up. Still, the rush weighed over the circumstances, but …. "Oh God" he thought. He needed to smoke a cigarette or something, his mind rushing with everything that could go wrong. He knew that he should've waited. He could have taken David much later, this meeting leaving no trace, but he didn't. He was a fool, he acted with haste. Fuck, he's being who he tried to destroy.

"America? Are you ok?" Canada asked, putting a hand on his strangely quiet brother.

America felt his mind sway back and forth. He was going to throw up; these sudden fears attacking him all at once. He looked up and realized that everyone was looking at him. He realized he was shivering, his face must've looked flushed and he could feel the sweat on him.

"I…I'm fine." He muttered taking in a deep breath. "Just…overworked I guess." No, he needed to get out and do something.

"I'm overreacting" he thought to himself. There's no way these people are smart enough to suspect him just because of these certain theories. He could go as planned and then he would break the pattern, but first he needed a smoke.

He couldn't think throughout anymore of the meeting, obviously not well. He excused himself from the meeting hall, but halfway through opening the door he collapsed, unable to take in anymore of these unknown consequences.


	8. Chapter 8: Nightmares Aren't Dreams

He didn't know how long he had slept but for the first time in a long time his mind had felt so clear and peaceful. He was alone with the bright blue sky, a great and vast field of wheat surrounding him at the ankles. He wasn't wearing his normal bomber jacket and clothing but instead he was just wearing a long, flowing cloak. He wasn't wearing his glasses and he wore no shoes; it was just the white cloak.

He began walking for no reason at all when he saw someone far in the distance. He began to run to them, seeing it was England smiling back at him. No, he wasn't smiling. He was crying. America hated to see him cry but when he tried to shout his name nothing came out. The sky began to cloud up into a grey, the wheat burning to the ground all around him. The fire raged all around his cloak turning ash black. England had a gun now and was pointing it at America…a different America; one from a long, long time ago.

There was a shot fired, but America didn't see who the receiver was because soon his head turned to see Japan, bloodied in the face. There were bomber jets in the air, his hand being their command. America screamed bloody murder for him to stop but soon the ashes of the wheat began to fly, covering the air and blinding his views. He looked a different direction and saw a row of men with blindfolds. He didn't know these men, but before he could do anything blood shot from the backs of their heads.

Then there was silence. He looked around, the walls and floors blackened. He looked up and saw a face come out; a woman, blond hair with the uniform of a confederate. He felt a coldness attach itself to his legs as he stared at this woman. She only said one thing.

"You let me be born…to die."

Tears began running down America's face, blood raining from the sky, droplets staining his already blackened cloak. He looked to the ground and saw its floor cracking apart, shackles keeping him put. The final piece fell, his own legs bound to it as it fell into pitch darkness, the faces of the world sneering at him.

"Pitiful."

"Obsolete."

"Isolation would've suited you so much better America."

America screamed. "WE ALL HAVE BLOOD ON OUR HANDS"

The faces didn't reply, but his descent down continued, his voice catching. It felt suffocating, nauseating, what was happening?!

He awoke, his head pounding, his hand shaking. He sat up in haste, looking around to find himself in a hospital room, familiar faces all around.

"America thank God you woke up." Canada spoke quietly but with relief in his voice, something America couldn't return.

"You bloke, you nearly gave me a heart attack."

America looked at the clock on the wall. 8:30 PM…but what day?

"How long was I out?"

"Two days." China scrounged around in a little backpack. "I got you something to eat." He held out a burger which America promptly smacked out of his hand.

"Hey no need to be violent!" China revolted but America stared down at his hands.

He failed his mission and now…now …oh God now there were people who were going to be after him. How handsomely would he have to pay to keep their mouths shut? How many would need a bullet through their face? Did they attempt to take it without his help?

"What's happened in the past couple days?" America asked.

Italy cocked his head. "Eh? What do yo –."

"Just humor me." America interrupted.

"America-san nothing has happened. We've been checking up on you to make sure you were ok and that is all." Japan answered quickly.

America sighed in relief and fell back on his white pillow, his head still spinning.

"It feels great that you all were concerned for me, but I just need a little more sleep. It's fine if you all go now." His voice was weakened and shaking. "Please."

They all hesitantly obliged, leaving the room so he could be left alone to sleep. When the door closed he quickly got out of bed and reached for his jacket that hung off the white chair on the left of his bed. He dug through the pocket and pulled out his phone, seeing he had missed four messages. Shit.

He dialed back.

"Mr. Jones I'm glad to hear you're back on your feet." A deep voice spoke before America could get a word in.

"It was a minor setback I assure you, but what about the preparations?"

"All put to waste I'm afraid. My men were never given the okay before it went down so no action has been provoked. Your money is gone though…of course this is a meager set back seeing as it's to pay the time wasted on our part."

America stood there silently for a moment and then spoke. "Very well I understand. Please though, cancel this operation. There's a suspicion in the air that I fear I won't be able to escape from if this goes through."

Another moment of silence until the deep voice spoke once more. "Very well Mr. Jones. I've never spoken to you and vice versa. Let's keep it that way for name's sake."

"Understood"

America hung up, relief filling him. His luck was running high these days. The mafia hadn't done anything. He knew deep in him that this would have never worked anyways. He hadn't prepared well enough, but now he knew what was to be done next time he targeted David. Now, though, he set up a new target, one in which he could do at any time.

The Declaration of Independence sounded good at first. Of course he would put in a fake, but soon they'd figure it out. He found it a bit ironic to steal it seeing as he fought so hard for it. He wanted it though.

He sat back in bed, afraid to close his eyes in fear that the dreams would come back.

Outside the countries all sat around, nothing better to do even though paperwork would await them elsewhere; France spoke up.

"Say, since when did America smoke?"

"What? America doesn't smoke." Canada replied, but he was only overshadowed by the others.

"He doesn't smoke. That man is a lot of things but he isn't a smoker." China retorted.

"Non but it's true. I was with him just a while back and he reeked of it."

"That doesn't sound like him." Russia looked up, puzzled.

"It's not just that. America-san seems to be much more…isolated lately." Japan spoke.

"He's not very talkative in the meetings anymore either." Germany pondered.

They all began to wonder the state of health America was in. It was odd to think of such a nation becoming so…remote.

(I DO NOT OWN HETALIA)

(Oh, also I just finished Steins; Gate and I feel so empty and void inside ;_;. Just thought I should add this...idk why)

(Also, thank you all for the supportive comments. You guys don't understand how happy I feel when I see someone has sent something. It's like a Christmas present. I hope ya'll have a wonderful day/night/afternoon/evening/dusk/dawn/witching hour. Love ya'll :D)


	9. Chapter 9: A Broken Chain

America stared up at the red ceiling of his room, the colors so vibrant and yet dulled in his mind. He had been told to rest by his boss and yet he got no sleep, something that has been happening more and more these days. He hadn't eaten in days either, his appetite lost in a sea of despair. He wasn't sorry for himself; he didn't need anyone's help; he wasn't a hero. He wanted to die and yet he was trapped on this world. Stealing though, it just made him feel so…human.

He stood up, his only clothing a black pair of pajama shorts. He didn't bother with his glasses which sat on a bed stand. He had failed his mission; he was nothing. He acted hastily with half-assed practice. He went into the kitchen, staring at the empty fridge for a few minutes, not with hunger but in contemplation.

He fell onto the couch in his dark living room. Everything, once so vibrant and energetic just felt so…gloomy. He needed to sleep and eat. He knew this, but he couldn't. He knew his state wouldn't get him through something like stealing the Declaration of Independence. He sat up and went to another room, pulling away at a picture hanging on a wall where a safe was hidden. He opened it, pulling out a black pistol. He aimed it at his temple.

There was blood and he felt his body go numb, and yet he still wasn't dead. He lay on the floor, blood in his hair. He couldn't die. Why was there nothing that he could do? Why wouldn't people just forget him already?!

"DAMN IT ALL" He began weeping, the blood and tears mixing together. "DAMN IT, DAMN IT, DAMN IT WHY?! WHY DID YOU PUT ME HERE GOD?! I'M NOT STRONG ENOUGH FOR THIS SHIT!" He screamed, the blood drying, his wound leaving as though it were never there.

He remained on that floor, his cries a silent whisper in the vast, empty house.

The days went on as he went through his house like a ghost, his phone never answered; the fridge never returned to; the mail never picked up. He never slept and his weight began to drastically go down, the blood stains on the floor remaining as well as the gun.

It had been days before he visited his treasure room, but when he did his chest began to race. He smiled at the sight of his treasures and realized something. He didn't live to be a country, to be the hero. He lived for himself now and could do whatever the hell he wanted. He collapsed in that room, his sleep clean of those dreams that had been plaguing him. He knew that this…stealing…was his greatest claim to history. His name would never be written, but his story would be known.

He giggled at these thoughts as they came to him, his fears suddenly put to rest. He could steal things, practice his thefts, and become the biggest damn threat in the world. He wouldn't steal the Declaration of Independence. No, he was going to go after David on his own. He was taking that bitch and he didn't need the mafia's help to do it.

Maybe this wasn't his path or fate as a country, but to hell with fate, America did what he wanted.

(I do not own Hetalia)


End file.
